


If I Only Could

by synonomy



Series: This Road We Walk [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Mental Instability, Porn With Plot, Prisoner of War, Psychological Torture, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonomy/pseuds/synonomy
Summary: Perhaps Six would have always ended up here, with or without the bullets.With or without Boone.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Male Courier, Male Courier/Vulpes Inculta
Series: This Road We Walk [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132901
Kudos: 26





	If I Only Could

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, boy. This one kinda got away from me. You don't _have_ to read the first part for this to make sense, but I'd certainly recommend it. Hover over the Latin for translations.
> 
> [**Inspiration / Soundtrack**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5GuBa4Bbnw)

_It doesn't hurt me_   
_You_ _wanna_ _feel how it feels?_   
_You_ _wanna_ _know, know that it doesn't hurt me?_   
_You wanna hear about the deal I’m making?_

_You, it’s you and me_   
_And if I only could make a deal with God_   
_And get him to swap our places  
Be running up that road, b_ _e running up that hill_   
_With no problems_

* 

Contrary to popular belief, the world is an entirely subjective prospect. 

He can't breathe, can't see, can't think. The heavy earth engulfs him like a straitjacket, cold and damp, suffocating. Steals every space he tries to make with feeble, useless hands, screams rendered silent as dirt fills his mouth and nose. Coughing brings no relief, makes his head swim and shriek with a pain profoundly indescribable. He can smell the blood amongst the earth, metal and decay, clogging thickly in his throat. 

_Hell,_ he thinks wildly, brokenly. _I'm in Hell._

And he remembers nothing else. An entire lifetime, it feels like, he's existed here. Nothing before, nothing after. Anything else he may have done, or not done, no longer matters. Paths he may have taken, people he may have cared about; all insignificant. Suffering is all his consciousness has room for now. 

Time, especially, is a meaningless concept. 

Six jerks and blinks blearily, coughing as his vision returns to him, the world spinning around him as he pulls his chin from his chest. He registers vaguely the dirty white expanse of canvas surrounding him, hard slab of something solid under his thighs. Tries to raise a palm to his aching forehead, startles as he realizes his wrists are tied behind himself, binding him to a chair. He flexes his fingers, finds them stiff and bare. 

Comprehension of where Six is dawns on him, yanks him back to full consciousness. He remembers the fight, the ambush sprung at the mouth of the Cove. Was doing a pretty good job of taking out the bulk of the perimeter guards, before there was a flash of something, a blur of whirring silver hurtling through the air towards his face. And then-- darkness. 

Six takes a shaky breath, heart thudding in time with the pain in his head. His scalp feels wet, sticky, a line of half-dried flakiness down the side of his face. It was a cheap shot, something blunt and heavy thrown from a distance, catching him off guard. Taking advantage of his distraction, the fact he was single handedly wiping out the entire fucking troop. 

He sees a face in his mind, the one behind the throw, and a fresh wave of fury washes over him. Fucking coward. Too scared to meet Six in direct combat, knew he wouldn't last five minutes. 

His eyes dart around the tent. Find a bedroll, a duffle bag, a footlocker, a small wooden table. Several two-by-fours fashioned into an armor stand. Scarlet flag hanging limply next to the tent entrance, folds of fabric distorting the golden sigil printed upon it. Still, the bull is unmistakable. 

Six spits at it. He knows full well why they haven’t killed him, and it’s comical. Actually makes him laugh out loud when the tent flap is thrown back and Vulpes Inculta himself enters, with all the dignity and arrogance only a psychotic sycophant could have. 

Vulpes pauses, looking amused himself. "Well, that’s a relief,” he says mildly. “I'll admit, I was concerned when you went down so heavily. I was a little worried I may have rendered you a simpleton.” He lets the flap fall closed behind him, removes his canine-decorated helmet and places it gently on the armor stand. "But I am glad to see you've lost none of your... fire. This really would be dreadfully dull, otherwise." 

Six snorts. "Takes more than a blow to the head to knock me out of the game." 

"Indeed," Vulpes agrees. "Your particular head does seem unusually... resilient." 

He slinks into the tent like a snake, every footstep carefully deliberate. Comes to stand in front of Six, subtly out of kicking or headbutting range. Looks like he came right from the battlefield, armor still dusty, face splattered with flecks of blood and dirt. Leather pleats falling around thighs streaked with cuts and bruises. 

He reaches up to remove his goggles, pulls them down so they're loose around his neck. Six looks up at him steadily, reluctantly curious. The last couple times they’d met, he’d kept his eyes shielded with various garb. 

Slim, chiseled face, undeniably handsome, but tempered with a sly impassivity, a harsh coldness. Narrowed, lightless eyes. Honeyed, devious voice. "I'm sure you've guessed why you're still alive, courier." 

Six nods. "Same reason you let me leave last time, I assume. Gotta say, I'm a little surprised, though." His lip quirks, eyebrow raises. "I've been real busy since then." 

"Your juvenile crusade against the Legion. Yes, I am aware," Vulpes says, sounding bored. "Provocative, certainly. But ultimately pointless." 

Six lets his smirk grow wider. "Bothered you enough to send all those assassins." 

Vulpes smiles back at him. "Rest assured, if Caesar had truly wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation." 

Six sniffs, impassively tilts his head back. "Well, he's persistent, I'll give him that. Deluded, though, if he genuinely thinks there's any chance in hell I'd ever help you demented fucks." 

Vulpes’ eyes narrow, but he looks thoughtful. "I'll admit, I find it hard to understand why my Lord is so... taken with you. If it were up to me, you'd be rotting on a cross already." He shakes his head slightly. "But I am merely a vessel for Caesar's will. And Caesar has decreed that you shall not die until you have served your purpose." 

"Purpose?" Six chuckles. "Never heard of it. I'm just here to have fun." 

Vulpes backhands him hard across the face. Six's laughter stutters as his head is flung sideways, feeling his lip split open. He hadn’t expected things to devolve quite so quickly, had thought Vulpes might attempt to sweet talk him first, but perhaps that was foolish of him. Nipton wasn’t exactly subtle, after all. 

"You will give Caesar what he wants," Vulpes says simply. "I have orders to make it so. To fail would mean to disobey, and that is something I will never do. Anything my Lord asks of me, he shall have." 

"Yeah?" Six says breathlessly, tonguing absently at the blood leaking from his lip. "Even if he asks to have _you?_ Doesn’t surprise me. He seems the type." 

Vulpes reaches out and grabs Six by the jaw. Six twists, tries to bite him, but Vulpes digs his fingertips painfully into the soft flesh of Six’s cheeks, forces him to still. 

"You will hold your tongue, courier," Vulpes says lowly, dangerously. "Or I will unburden you of it." 

Six spits in his face. Receives another backhand for it, harder, force of it ricocheting painfully through his already pounding head. Six laughs raggedly and spits again, bloody saliva scattering over the compacted earth between them. 

"Damn,” he wheezes, “you sure know how to show a fella a good time." 

Vulpes straightens up, runs a leather-wrapped palm over his face, nonchalantly sweeps dust off his armor. Looks down at Six scornfully. "I've broken stronger men than you, courier. I assure you, this pathetic charade of bravery will not serve you for long." 

Six shakes his head. "You don't get it. I was already dead long before you caught me. This right here?" He raises his chin, grins widely. "This is _shit_ to me. It means _nothing._ Do whatever the fuck you want. I fucking _welcome_ it, if the alternative is joining your fucked up cult of brainwashed assholes." 

"Is that so?" Vulpes says lightly. He runs a hand casually over the fur of his helmet, hums thoughtfully. Then, like it’s to himself, “Perhaps... you have a point. Perhaps I am being a little.... obstinate, in my approach.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, before tilting his head to Six, speaking strangely casually, “Do you know, a most curious thing happened while we were attempting to carry you back to the camp. Several of my men were killed. Shot. Though exactly where the bullets came from, I cannot yet say. There are several mountains surrounding the Cove, as I'm sure you are aware." 

Six is silent, staring at him. Vulpes continues smoothly, "The obvious conclusion, of course, is you brought somebody with you. Somebody to watch over you while you dispensed with the outer guards. No doubt you thought they wouldn't prove much of a challenge, being comprised mostly of lowly recruits. And,” he smiles disdainfully, “regrettably, you would be right. Of course, there's no way you could've known that I also happened to be here, overseeing the latest shipment of slaves." 

Vulpes’ eyes are hard on Six's carefully blank face. "A strange twist of fate, indeed. If it weren't for that lucky coincidence, perhaps the pair of you would've gotten away with your villainous scheme." 

"Don't know what you're talking about," Six says stiffly. "I did come alone." 

"Courier," Vulpes says charmingly. "The shots did not cease until I held a blade to your throat. Please, don’t insult my intelligence. I was under the impression there was a mutual respect between us." 

Six snorts, gritting his teeth. "Then you're just as deluded as Caesar." 

Vulpes steps closer, looming over him. Bends down and braces himself on the arms of the chair. Six could hurt him, spit at him again, launch his forehead into his nose. But something about the sudden, unflinching proximity of Vulpes' face gives him pause, unnerves him into staying still. 

"Why else would you have let me walk away?" Vulpes asks quietly, words warm on Six's face. 

Six takes a carefully measured breath. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was still in boxing tape back then. No match for you plus all your lackeys.” 

Vulpes hums thoughtfully. “And on the Strip?” 

Six glares at him. “Securitrons.” 

“Ah, of course,” Vulpes says, mock-understandingly. “I forgot, Mr. House only gave you leave to kill his employees, not Legion spies.” 

“Why the fuck would I want you anything other than fucking dead?” Six snaps. “You buy and sell people. You slaughtered an entire town.” 

“A drop in the ocean, compared to your brutality.” 

“I kill Legion,” Six says, vaguely annoyed that he’s been goaded into arguing. “That’s a public fucking service. What you did was just... fucked.” 

Vulpes gives him a withering look. “Please. Don’t pretend you had any sympathy for those worthless degenerates. I was there, courier. _I saw you.”_

Six stares at him, adrenaline simmering, unsure why he’s still not hurting him. 

The corner of Vulpes’ mouth tugs up. “And I’ve seen you many times since then. In fact, I’ve learned rather a lot about you since delivering Caesar's Mark into your hands, _Six._ Your dealings with Mr. House, of course, are where my Lord’s interests lie.” The smile grows. All lips, no teeth. “Although, I must confess, my own interests lie... elsewhere. More in the... company you keep.” 

Unbidden, Six’s jaw clenches. He sees Vulpes’ teeth, then. “Yes, I know about your NCR dog. It’s only a matter of time until we find him, you know. My men know these mountains better than anyone.” 

“You won’t find him,” Six says through gritted teeth, “because he’s not there. He’s not stupid enough to stick around.” 

“Ahh,” Vulpes purrs, running a fingertip lightly down the curve of Six’s jaw, “but he is, courier. He’s not going to abandon you; you know that as well as I. He’s planning how to save you as we speak.” 

“No,” Six says, firmer than he feels. “Trust me, he’s gone.” 

“Yes, well, you’ll forgive me my cynicism. Still, I _might_ be persuaded to call off the search... in exchange for you submitting to Caesar’s will, of course.” 

“Fuck yourself.” 

Vulpes grins wickedly. “Oh, we are going to have some _fun_ together, you and I.” He straightens up, brusque. “You have seven days until we sail for the Fort. After that, your dog goes to the wolves. _Vale. ” _

Swiftly, Vulpes departs the tent. Six slumps in his chair, breathing shallowly, curling and uncurling his numbing fingers. He’s not sure how he feels. Scared, no. Not for himself, at any rate. He knew before he set out, has known for a long time, that the road he’s been walking would inevitably end up here, or somewhere like here. 

Regretful, maybe. Not for all of it, or even most of it. Because for better or worse, Six will never regret meeting Boone. Maybe just for the overreaching reality of it, the fact this was its forgone conclusion. Anger, definitely. Because he’s never been more certain of anything that Vulpes is absolutely correct, that Boone is out there still. 

_“You said both of us were coming back. Those were your fucking words."_

_“I know that. But we can’t pretend shit doesn’t happen.”_

_“Then it works both ways.”_

_“Boone.”_

_“No. Rule’s the same for both of us.”_

_“It’s not going to be you. They won’t even know you exist. Last thing they never see, remember?”_

_“Then you won’t mind promising, too.”_

Six’s fists clench, rage a hot, vicious ball spinning in his gut. That fucking asshole, that absolute piece of fucking shit. He’s the only thing preventing Six from going to his grave with something like contentment, resigned to a deserved end, free from any sense of indignation. If the roles were reversed, he has no doubt Boone would mirror him, but here and now, that isn’t helping Six feel any less sick.

Because he isn’t Boone. He’s just somebody who cares about Boone, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do with that. 

Evidentially, he was wrong to scoff at Boone’s faith in some ultimate celestial equalizer. Because this is a punishment if he’s ever seen one; forced to sit and wait for something he can’t even contemplate without wanting to vomit, taunted with the idea it’s something he can prevent. 

This isn’t anything like how Six had always imagined them going out. Had always pictured them dying together on the field doing what they do fucking best. That would have been fitting. Not unexpected, but sudden enough to accept, over and done with before they could even feel anything about it. 

But this-- this is vile. Utterly unacceptable in every possible way. 

Six shakes his head to himself. He’s not giving the Legion-- giving _Vulpes,_ a goddamn thing. That isn’t even a question. Doing so would render everything him and Boone have done up until now entirely worthless. At least to one of them. 

They’re not going to find Boone. Not until it doesn’t matter anyway. Feels like a blade to think it, but it’s something to hold onto. Everything else is irrelevant. Vulpes can do his worst. 

Six is moved to a building the next day, something with four walls and a door. “One of the old resort shacks,” Vulpes tells him. “I thought you might find this preferable to being tied to a chair in my tent all week.” 

Six looks around the small wooden room, snorts at his severely Spartan accommodation; an old mattress in one corner and a battered bucket in the other. “Charming.” 

Vulpes’ palm is firm between Six’s shoulderblades, shoving him further inside, towards the mattress. “You will be fed and tended to twice a day. An extraordinary privilege, I hope you realize. If you were anyone else, our mongrels would’ve dined on your flesh already. The Legion does not take prisoners.” 

Six snorts again as he drops heavily onto the mattress. “Are you kidding?” 

“Slaves are not prisoners. They are property.” 

“You’re sick.” 

“And you?” Vulpes posits, eyebrow raised knowingly. “What of your sickness, courier?” 

Six turns to stare at the wall in front of himself, studying the chips of peeling paint. He knows what Vulpes is doing. The common ground he’s trying to find between them, the ultimate sympathy he’s trying to cultivate. It’s as predictable as it is futile, not worth the breath it’d take to point it out. However obvious the former, it’ll never lead to the latter. 

“ _Qui tacet consentire videtur._ Your silence speaks volumes.” 

“Yeah? So does your skirt.” 

Vulpes chuckles. “You deflect to hide your hypocrisy.” Said skirt suddenly invades Six’s vision, followed by Vulpes’ face, sure and intent, as he crouches down in front of him. “Why bother, courier? You cannot hide from me. I already know exactly who you are.” 

Six huffs a laugh. “If that were true, you’d know you’re wasting your time. I told you. I’m dead already.” 

Vulpes nods. “Your instinct for self-preservation is severely lacking; of that, I have no doubt. And yet, you have not taken a knife to yourself. You live willingly. More than that, you live with _purpose._ Why is that, I wonder?” 

Six lets his head tip back against the wall, stares at Vulpes down the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Guess I just can’t get enough of seeing Legion heads explode.” 

Vulpes’ lip curls. “I am sure. Still, that is only a half truth.” He shifts where he’s crouched, ass resting against his heels, elbows braced against bare, spread thighs. It’s an easy, unconcerned position, draws Six’s attention to all the ways he could exploit it, all the vulnerable spots Vulpes has left open to him. 

Still, Six stays where he is. Gets the feeling Vulpes would welcome it. It strikes him, suddenly, how well suited Vulpes is for his role. Lithe and light-footed, entirely adept for a life of stealth and trickery. 

“You know, it once fell to me to clear up a mess you and your dog left behind,” Vulpes says, slender fingers curling casually around each other where they hang from loose wrists. “A camp along my patrol. We’d been hearing reports for days about your antics, of course, but seeing it in the flesh... I admit, it was startling, even to me.” 

His gaze is unwavering, unflinching where it rests on Six’s face. “What struck me most was how deliberate it was. Every legionary systematically, meticulously butchered, entrails strewn across the dirt... such egregious lack of mercy. It wasn’t simple combat, that much was plain to see. It was... personal. Poetic, almost.” His eyes darken, a smile tugging at his mouth. “In a strange sort of way, it reminded me of my own work.” 

Six swallows, voice carefully level, “Sounds like you enjoyed seeing your own men slaughtered like that. Surely that constitutes _disloyalty?_ Better watch out, or your boss will give you a spanking.” 

Vulpes shrugs a shoulder, ignoring the quip. “They were bested. By profligates, no less. The Legion is purified every time worthless life like them is purged from it.” 

“So I did you a favor? You’re insane.” 

Vulpes grins, a highly disconcerting sight. “Well. If anyone would know.” 

Six is startled into a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.” 

Vulpes’ eyes are severe, penetrating. “You enjoyed killing them. As you enjoyed the sight of those crucified convicts. As I know you’d enjoy doing far worse to me. Because that’s what you are, courier. A killer. Who you direct your ire towards is entirely arbitrary. You,” he jabs a finger into Six’s chest, “are simply me, under different circumstances.” 

Six stares at him silently, tells himself he’s not riled. Can’t tell himself it’s not true, but will kill himself with his bare hands before he willingly admits it to Vulpes. Tries to resurrect the illusion of a distinction from where it’s long since faded; it didn’t matter when there was nothing but him and Boone and the desert, but he needs it to matter now. Enough to get Vulpes away from this, away from him. 

Vulpes lets the silence hang, gaze still burning Six’s face. “It really is a shame you’re so determined to fight against us,” he says eventually, sounding genuinely regretful. “With your talents, you’d rise through the ranks of the Legion in no time. You could be truly great, courier... one of the finest warriors the world has ever seen. Caesar is generous to those who prove themselves worthy. Anything your heart desires... could be yours.” 

“Yeah?” Six says quietly, leaning forwards. “What if I desire your head on a spike?” 

Vulpes doesn’t flinch, leaning towards Six in equal measure. “If you can best me in single combat, by all means.” 

Six lets a smile twist his mouth, holding Vulpes’ eyes unwaveringly. “Tell you what. We fight now. When I win, you let me go, and I won’t fuck your corpse. Pretty fair deal.” 

Vulpes chuckles. “I’m afraid the terms of this... particular arrangement are already set. You will go free when you agree to dispense with Mr. House. An agreement you will be held to, make no mistake. And in return, I will not make an example of the NCR degenerate.” 

Six huffs as mockingly as he can. “Even if he were still out there, which he’s not, what makes you think I’d give a shit what you did with him anyway?” 

“Oh, courier,” Vulpes laughs. Honest-to-god laughs, genuinely, coldly. “Did you forget who you’re talking to? Please, cease the pathetic attempts at subterfuge. I assure you; you are not clever enough to pull it off.” His voice lowers then, still smiling, “Do you really think I wouldn’t have looked into him? That I wouldn’t know... how much he means to you?” 

Six’s skin feels too tight, prickling. “Sounds like someone’s been feeding you false intel. He’s just good at what he does. Believe me, a talent for splattering Legion heads is something I’d value in anybody.” 

Vulpes’ smile bleeds into a nasty smirk. “So he doesn’t fuck you?” 

Six’s gut twists. He breathes in slowly through his nose, keeps his expression even, but it’s too late. Victory already simmers in Vulpes’ dark eyes. 

Vulpes hums lowly. “I understand. The wasteland can be a lonely place.” He rises to his feet, straightens the leather plates of his armor. Walks briskly to the door, pauses. “You know how this is going to go, courier. As I said, I am only a vessel. I have no say in this any more than you do. All I can do is urge you to think carefully, and consider your choices. This can be extremely easy. Or it can be, explicitly, torture. It really is up to you.” 

The silence is deafening after Vulpes departs. Despite himself, dread creeps steadily into Six’s chest, twisting around his ribcage like tightening vines. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter what Vulpes knows. They still won’t find Boone. Not before Boone wants to be found. Not a chance in hell. 

He takes a shaky breath, overwhelmed for a terrible, enduring moment. Lets himself become weak enough to consider the notion of getting himself killed before then, helplessly tempted by the idea of blissful oblivion. 

He could probably kill Vulpes before the guards outside ran in to stop him. Beat him unconscious, snap his neck, plunge thumbs into his eye sockets. Might be vaguely interesting, seeing what Caesar would do with him then. If he could somehow justify keeping Six alive after he’d slaughtered his favorite Frumentarius, how he’d sell that to the rest of them. There’s got to be a limit to Six’s usefulness, a line he could cross that would render his liability greater than his value. 

But doing that would also render Boone’s mission redundant. Would mean he risked himself, got himself tortured and killed, for absolutely nothing. Wouldn’t have even the illusion of success, entirely futile right from the start. 

As unbearable as all of that is, though, Six knows it’s not what’s stopping him, really. He just can’t willingly say goodbye to a Boone that still wants him.

God, Six misses him so much. Misses the road and the sun and the rain of blood they bring down, the crimson they leave scattered across the sand. Misses the low hum of Boone’s voice and the hard calluses of his palms, the slicing edge of his teeth. The way everything seemed to make sense underneath them. 

It never got easier. Still felt new every time since the first, like resolution of a longing spanning generations. And yet still never enough, never truly satiating. They didn’t even make it into cover, sometimes, before Six was reaching for him. Falling to his knees amongst all their mess, pleading for things Boone was fully prepared to give him anyway, if only on his own terms. 

Fear was something Six knew only in those moments, panic rising in the space his breath left behind, dread consuming him at the thought of it being the last time. Strange, perhaps, to have such clarity beneath Boone and not beside him, when the threat of death was not only most present and real, but probable. 

In quiet moments, in weak moments, Six had wondered after the point. Wondered if there were any words he could choose, any order he could arrange them in, that would make Boone give up on this. Not forget, or forgive, but come to a place where it didn’t matter. Or, at least, a place where Six mattered more. 

Thankfully, they’ve never had much need for words. 

Still, Six can’t help but think on it now. It stays with him as the hours pass, as he stares into space until his eyes blur and tear. As he fails to sleep, mind out in the mountains, body twisting with unfulfilled longing. 

The days are long and hot in the little wooden shack. A slave girl visits Six in the morning and evening with a tray of food and a pail of fresh water to wash him; healing powder for the gash on his head and lacerations on his wrists. The tension of time ticking steadily forward is palpable, torturous, but Six resolves himself against giving Vulpes the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Because really, all he has to do is wait, and endure. The words Vulpes drips in Six’s ear like poisoned wax hold no weight if none of them are revelatory or convincing. The hurt he can inflict means nothing if Six is fully prepared to die anyway. The threats he makes against Boone are worthless without the man himself. 

Six knows Vulpes is aware of all this, too. It’s one of the few pleasures Six still has, enjoying the burgeoning, carefully restrained frustration slowly lacing its way through the legionary. 

“My scouts tell me they’ve picked up a trail in the hills to the north,” Vulpes tells him around four days in. “Rather close to the camp. Perhaps your dog is attempting to circumnavigate the road, take us by surprise. I assure you; he won’t succeed.” 

Six shrugs. He’s sat on his mattress, leaning heavily against the wall. “Whatever you say.” 

Vulpes paces back and forth slowly, lengthways in front of Six, like a lion in a cage. “The cliff face there is sheer. He will die simply trying to descend into the Cove. And even if he does survive, it matters not. His body will break upon a cross just as easily.” 

Six leisurely tilts his head back against the wall. Vulpes snorts, “You won’t convince me you don’t care, courier, so this charade is utterly pointless. Come now. Are you really so cruel, to let your man suffer unnecessarily? To let him needlessly sacrifice his life?” 

Vulpes stops in front of Six, crouches down before him. Six doesn’t look at him, but he hears his voice, quieter, “You can still be together, you know. Both of you can go free, and you have my word the Legion will make no further attempts on either of you. Tell me, why are you so set on protecting Mr. House, a man I know you care little for? You would choose him over your...” Six can hear the sneer in his voice as he says the word, “lover?” 

Six rolls his eyes at the roof. “If I helped you, I wouldn’t have him anyway. Now quit your bleating, would you? I’m trying to count the cracks in the ceiling.” 

He’s not expecting the slap. Vulpes hasn’t laid hands on him since the first night, and Six has grown complacent, he’s loathe to admit. He jerks to attention automatically, meets Vulpes’ eyes before he can stop himself. 

“Perhaps destroying this pretty face of yours might make you reconsider,” Vulpes seethes, angriest Six has seen him yet. “Would he still want you then, I wonder?” 

The idea that Boone would care about his looks is so bizarre Six can’t help but snicker, but it dies in his throat when Vulpes hits him again. With his fist, this time. Six’s head is flung sideways with the force, body following it down onto the mattress. The pain comes a beat later, flaring out bright and hot from his cheek throughout his face. 

He grits his sore teeth, shaking his head. “Another cheap shot? Can see why you’re so good at your job.” He gets a boot in his gut for the remark, leaving him doubled over on his side and heaving. “You fucking--" he starts, getting riled up in spite of himself, on the verge of lunging for Vulpes and tackling him to the floor. 

But a kick to the face catches him hard in the nose, the pain instant and intense this time, rendering him entirely useless, vision blurring. He feels a hand grab his arm and tries to lash out, but Vulpes, taking advantage of his disorientation, shoves him over onto his front. Six feels Vulpes straddle his thighs, yanking his arm back behind himself and pressing his wrist down between his shoulderblades. Snarling, furious, Six struggles and bucks, calling Vulpes every vile thing he can think of. 

“Enough of this,” Vulpes hisses, leaning weight onto Six’s arm until he’s forced to still, lest his shoulder pop out of its socket. “You are trying my patience, profligate. I tell you again, _submit,_ or I will utterly destroy your pathetic dog. I will make you watch as I flay the skin from his body; as I cut bits off of him and throw them to the crows, until there’s nothing left.” 

Six’s eyes are streaming, head pounding. He can feel blood dribbling from his nose, smearing over his face as Vulpes’ smushes it sideways. Still, his voice is remarkably level as he grits out, “You do that, I swear to god, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” 

Vulpes huffs derisively. “You are in _no_ position to be making threats.” 

His fingers tighten and tug at Six’s wrist, stressing the twist of his arm so severely he can’t help but grunt in pain. He grabs behind himself with his free hand, trying to get a hold of any part of Vulpes he can use, but Vulpes avoids him easily, grabs that wrist too and pins it down next to Six’s face. Exhausted, Six falls still, breathing noisily against the filthy mattress. 

Vulpes is quiet for a long, heavy moment. His breaths are audible, too. Elevated, though carefully measured. “Although, the position you _are_ in... seems rather natural to you,” he says suddenly, a smirk in his voice. “Is this how he takes you?” 

Six feels heat in his gut flare, vicious and hot. “Fuck you.” 

Vulpes shifts on top of him, leaning more weight into his hips. Six can feel the leather pleats of Vulpes’ armor chafing against the fabric of his pants, the firm muscle of Vulpes’ thighs where they’re spread over his. Can't temper the instinct to struggle then, but Vulpes is a solid, unyielding force, utterly immovable. And all Six’s squirming around beneath him does is make his stomach twist tighter, makes him flush and-- still, suddenly.

Fuck. 

He feels Vulpes lean in, voice low and amused, “My, my. You truly are depraved.” 

Six lies very still, shaking his head minutely like denial can make it untrue, like he can will away the heat unfurling uncomfortably throughout his body. 

It’s not Vulpes, he tells himself. It’s just this. Just Six and instincts nurtured into perversion through days and days of desert slaughter, days of having his sickness indulged without hesitation. Practically Pavlovian now, the way strong hands and a stronger will has him bending like a bow. 

“Well now, it seems I have leverage yet,” Vulpes says. He sounds positively gleeful. 

“How’d you figure,” Six gets out, strong as he can muster. “I’m fucking dead already, why would I care--” 

The hand holding his wrist against the mattress moves to fist in Six’s hair instead, twisting in tight and yanking his head back. Six’s words cut off with a strangled noise. “You keep saying that, and yet you continue to live.” Vulpes’ voice lowers then, like he’s sharing a secret, “Do you know what I think? I think you’re holding on to the possibility he’ll succeed in rescuing you. It’s understandable. Foolish, of course, but understandable.” 

His fingers tighten until Six whimpers, can’t fucking help it. He’s always been weak to it, always had a vague inkling somewhere in his subconscious that it’s why he keeps his hair long, especially after that first time with Boone-- 

“But if by some miracle that _were_ to occur, know that I will make sure he learns of this. How willingly you submitted to me, how your body writhed and begged for it... I will utterly ruin you for him, courier.” 

“You're deluded,” Six chokes out. “I’m your fucking prisoner. He’s not going to blame--” 

Vulpes shifts his hips again, grinding hard against Six’s ass. Chuckles darkly at Six’s grunt, the involuntary arch of his back. “Look at you. Look how you react. You can’t lie convincingly even to yourself. As dim-witted as your dog surely is, I doubt he’ll fall for it either.” 

Six’s face is shoved back into the mattress and he leaves it there, breathing hard, panic steadily rising as he feels Vulpes’ hand slide down his side and over his hip. “Don’t,” he hears himself say, voice thin and weak, disgustingly unconvincing. 

The hate he has for himself is immediate. If he can’t keep his composure the least he could do is maintain his conviction, grit his teeth and remain defiant, but he’s failing at everything. Failing at not believing Vulpes’ words; failing, even, at using the fear that creates to dissuade his body from responding to Vulpes’ touch. 

Vulpes’ hand slips smoothly between his body and the mattress, roughly engulfs the bulge of Six’s crotch, squeezing hard. Six jerks and gasps, torn between pushing into it and bucking away from it. 

Vulpes chuckles again at finding him hard already. “Oh, you are _filthy._ You’re going to enjoy every moment of this, aren’t you?” 

Six shakes his head, even as the noises continue to spill from his mouth as Vulpes rubs over him. It hurts, their combined weight and the coarse fabric of his pants dragging back and forth. Has his hips raising automatically, realizing only after the fact that it grinds him back against Vulpes’ cock. A cock that is now just as hard as his own; heavy, threatening weight of it against his ass. 

Vulpes makes a low, pleased noise, releasing Six’s other wrist to grab him by the hips. Encouraging, moving with him. “That’s it, courier,” he purrs, “give in to it. Take your pleasure. I do believe I will enjoy this, too.” 

Six is panting as his sore arm is finally allowed to fall from behind himself, weak and throbbing as the numbness slowly recedes, but still. His hands are free now, he could do something. Why did Vulpes even let him go? As if he’s inviting Six to resist. As if he knows he won’t, that he isn’t capable anymore, that his mind is completely clouded with sheer, incongruent need. 

Vulpes’ nimble fingers hook into the waistband of Six’s pants, tug them down over the curve of his ass. Yanking them free from under his hips and working them down his legs, leaving them bunched up around his ankles. Six feels himself shudder as the air hits his skin, as the leather pleats of Vulpes’ armor pinch and scrape. Hears himself make a desperate, ugly noise as Vulpes’ suddenly-bare cock drags over his skin, hot and sticky; as leather-bound palms smack down on his ass and spread him open. 

“Apologies,” Vulpes says curtly, before spitting on Six’s exposed hole, digging his fingertips hard into tensing, rippling flesh when Six trembles. “I did not think to bring anything for this purpose. Naïve of me, I suppose. Still, I daresay you are used to it.” Six hears him spit again, and then he’s straightening up and mounting Six with purpose, forcing Six’s thighs apart with his knees, tilting his hips up.

The moment seems to hang for an eternity, bizarre and surreal, as though Six were lagging behind in time. When Vulpes takes him he does so without pause; one firm, unrelenting stroke, utterly immune to Six’s ragged breaths and words of unknown purpose caught up, lost, in his throat. He registers that it hurts, drag made rough with nothing but spit and sweat, but no way near enough, not even close. Just draws attention to all the other vulnerable places upon and within himself. Every bruise and ache; every confused, conflicted desire. 

“For such a seasoned slut, you’re remarkably tight,” Vulpes breathes. “I can see why your dog enjoys you so much. If it weren’t for our... prior obligation, I’d gladly have you as my pet.” 

Six clenches; teeth in his mouth, fingers against the mattress. With eyes squeezed shut, he feels his back arch, his hips raise. Like a moth to a flame, hungry for that intensity he knows lies poised, ready to spring forth at the first snaps of Vulpes’ hips. Desperate for it to bleach his senses entirely, make him forget everything-- everyone, else. 

“I could make you beg for it with words, too.” 

Six doubts it, doesn’t think he has any left. Still, the idea afflicts him so severely it feels like the room is dissolving around him, like his chest is crumpling in on itself. He shoves his ass back against Vulpes and finds the legionnaire's sharp inhale entirely too gratifying, a small modicum of power in this endless void of helplessness. 

He does it again, but Vulpes stills him with a smack, leaving a hot, stinging spot where leathered palm met the join of ass and thigh. “Behave,” he says charmingly. “You don’t get to rush this.” 

Six is still reeling as he’s suddenly covered in weight and warmth, Vulpes flush against his back, stiff leather of his breastplate hard against Six’s shoulderblades. Feels sharp hipbones against his ass, hot air on the back of his damp neck; feels far too close, a sick imitation of intimacy that makes him want to retch, want to moan. 

Six can’t help it; he thinks of Boone, the last time he was under him like this. Day before they reached the Cove and they hadn’t had any words left for each other, no room in Six’s mouth for anything other than cries and pleads and Boone himself. Feels like a lifetime ago now, something still so intensely desired it’s like it never happened to begin with. 

Vulpes’ weight on Six is distinctly lighter. The feel of him, air of him, inescapably different. Boone wouldn’t fuck around like this, wouldn’t waste time taunting and teasing him. He’d have taken what he wanted from Six already. 

Six only wishes that mattered, right now. 

The pressure of Vulpes’ hips increases, grinding his cock in deeper, angling it inside until Six gasps and clenches helplessly around it, heat spearing through him like a gunshot. Vulpes make a low, satisfied noise, grip on Six’s hips becoming brutal, bruising, holding him there. Keeping Six in that position as he starts to fuck him in a smooth, measured, maddening rhythm. A rhythm suited to the man himself, Six thinks wildly. All that compact strength concentrated on a single-minded purpose, utterly relentless and thoroughly vindictive.

It’s shameful how quickly it brings Six to the edge, each perfectly placed stroke pushing his cock into the rough give of the mattress, steadily winding the heat in his lower belly tighter and tighter. Six buries his face in his arms and takes it, moans for it, torn helplessly between wanting it over with and wanting it to never end, knowing what the end will mean. 

Vulpes’ breaths are hot and labored against Six’s ear, but his voice is carefully measured, biting, “By Mars, you truly are a degenerate whore, aren’t you? Every single legionary in this camp could take you, one after the other, and you’d still be left begging for more. Unfortunately for you, however, I am not a man who shares.” 

Six feels teeth on his neck, tongue on his ear. Vulpes’ voice a hushed, malicious drawl, “He’s going to hate you for this, courier. After this, he won't be able to look at you without seeing me, my hands all over you, my cock inside of you--” He stutters, exhaling hard, the first slip in his composure since this began. As if the very idea of it is too much for him. 

His hips abruptly drive harder, faster, slaps of their skin ringing loud and harsh in Six’s ears. Audible even over his own strangled whimper, his ragged panting. He doesn’t even try to fight the wave building inside him, lets it raise up and crest in a moment of pure, agonizing bliss. Chokes out something pleading when Vulpes doesn’t relent, using his body to the bitter end, withdrawing only once Six has taken every last iota of him. 

Vulpes’ own climax was silent. 

Six’s ears are ringing when Vulpes climbs off of him. He registers himself shivering as the euphoria rapidly fades away, the air stinging against all the places he’s wet; the blood on his face, the sweat on his back, the mess smeared between his thighs. 

Somewhere above him, Vulpes makes an approving noise. “Well, aren’t you a sight. I must admit, there is something to be said for... mutual pleasure, in this. I daresay the next time will be even better.” 

_Next time._ Six’s breath was already a fleeting thing, but it becomes almost impossible to catch at those words. Days, days of this, before-- 

_Oh god, Boone._

Distantly, he registers Vulpes crouch down next to him. “He doesn’t have to know about this, courier,” he says quietly, like he read Six’s mind. “I can be incredibly... tactful, when I need to be.” Six can practically hear the smirk, “Then again, perhaps it’s better to just be honest about these things. _Veritas liberabit vos._ ” 

Six tries to catch his breath. Tries to catch himself, clawing desperately for something, anything, to ground himself. He could kill Vulpes, kill himself. Never see Boone again. 

He could do it; he could kill House. Vulpes is right, what does he fucking care anyway? He could-- Boone would want to know why. Why they let him go. He would-- 

Boone will know anyway. He’ll know the second he touches him. 

Six hears himself make a noise disgustingly like a sob. A hushing, overwhelmed breath into the damp, sticky fabric hugging his still-throbbing face. 

Vulpes makes a sympathetic noise, tutting. “Such a shame, having to break one so full of potential. But it had to be done. It was Caesar’s will.” Six remains silent, still chasing his breath. Feels Vulpes’ hand in his hair, stroking idly, a façade of tenderness. “So, what’s it to be, courier? Am I to add insult to great, great injury?” 

Six forces himself to raise his head, pushing himself onto his elbows. The room spins around him, tugs bile up into the back of his throat. Brings with it a stark, shocking clarity that has him suddenly choking with delirious laughter, wracking his aching body with painful shudders. 

He doesn’t have to look at Vulpes to know he’s thoroughly taken aback. “Something... amusing?” 

“God,” Six gets out, “you poor, dumb fuck. You don’t-- don’t even realize how badly you just fucked yourself--” 

The fingers in his hair tighten painfully, yank Six’s face close to Vulpes’. “Only one of us here has been _fucked,_ courier,” he snaps. “And it'll be my machete taking the next turn, if you fail to explain yourself.” 

Six can barely breathe through his laughter, spit and blood clogging thickly at the back of his pulled-taut throat. “Why would I do _anything_ now? I can’t fucking hide this from him; you’d know that if you weren’t such a soulless piece of shit. God, he was the only--” his voice cracks, “only fucking thing I cared about, and now--” Six heaves a gurgling breath as the full realization of the situation crashes over him, “Now whatever happens, I don’t have him.” 

“You can still save him,” Vulpes hisses, but Six shakes his head frantically, voice pitching up to something close to hysteria. 

“He won’t-- there’s no way he’ll walk away now, not once he knows-- God, I can’t believe-- can’t believe how fucking _stupid_ you are, oh my god--” 

His head is shoved down; Vulpes springs to his feet and then all Six knows is pain, blows raining down on him like hail. He curls into a ball and waits for it all to end, still giggling weakly, until a boot in his stomach knocks all the wind out of him. 

When Vulpes has finally had his fill, he draws himself up and takes a few steps back, breathing hard. “If it is as you say,” he says eventually, “then you no longer hold value.” 

Six tries to speak, pain in his ribs leaving him wracked with coughs instead. Hacks up a wad of blood, spits it sloppily in Vulpes’ general direction, grinning widely, manically. “Looks like you failed after all.” 

Vulpes looks stricken, teeth gritted, body trembling with barely restrained fury. Six wonders distantly how bad Vulpes will be punished for this; might’ve been smug about it, if he could feel anything other than agony right now. 

After a long moment, Vulpes shakes his head absently, appears to get a hold of himself. Grows a smile of his own, bitter and vengeful. “In which case, there is no longer anything... stemming the tides. You, and your dog, will receive all the retribution you are owed, and more.” The smile grows teeth. “Congratulations, courier. You defied Caesar to the end. I do hope it was worth it.” 

He leaves with a slam of the door that rattles the whole shack. Six is still in the same position when a slave girl comes to tend to him some time later. A different one, this time, clearly with medical training beyond primitive herbal remedies. Perhaps she was a doctor, at one point. 

She makes a tutting noise when she sees him, but otherwise stays silent. Six lets her minister to him, uncaring, wondering vaguely if she’d kill him if he asked. He doesn’t, though. She’d be punished for it, and he still has enough conscience left to make that an unacceptable prospect. 

Things drift, after that. Time, body and mind. Six has no idea how long it’s been at any given moment. His thoughts are fragmented things, fleeting and hard to grasp. 

He thinks of the strangest things, things he hasn’t thought about for a very long time. The village where he was born, his tiny hands in the dirt, bonfires under the stars. Still doesn’t understand where the claustrophobia came from, growing up surrounded by endless hills and open sky.

Perhaps he was just born strange, affected. Perhaps he would have always ended up here, with or without the bullets. 

With or without Boone. 

He thinks of that first night, after the first time. They’d set out at dawn, made it all the way out of Vegas and well past sunset without one real word passing between them. Hadn’t been awkward, exactly, but the weight of what they did, what they were doing, was hanging heavily over them. 

Six had sat on a rock while he waited for Boone to return with the firewood, fingers fidgeting and gentle wind rustling the hairs on the back of his neck, heels drumming against the dirt. Remembers thinking how familiar that feeling was, crawling and gnawing under his skin. Except now it was utterly unbearable, not a horizon on earth he could run towards that would take it away. 

He’d known the moment Boone returned, the second they’d met each other’s eyes, that it was going to happen again. That it was going to happen right then, right there. 

The dam was broken for good, then. Shame is something Six lost a long time ago, but even if he hadn’t, it would have been driven out for good that night. Along with anything else that might have gotten in the way of such all-encompassing fulfillment, the profound sense of peace that came with being taken. Beingowned. 

He only wishes Boone could have found the same self-acceptance. Even once Six had lost count of it, when it had long since become _just the way things were,_ he could tell Boone was still troubled by it. It was funny, really. Bloody, merciless slaughter was all in a day’s work, yet something as trivial as making Six beg was worthy of pause. 

Six had understood, partly. It was a different kind of brutality, what Boone did to him. More personal, somehow. Six gets that it probably wasn’t how Boone wanted to see himself. Wouldn’t have been surprised if, on some level, he associated it with Legion behavior. 

Couldn’t exactly blame him for that, or even argue against it. But by then, Six was long past pretending there was anything righteous about what they were doing. If he didn’t feel guilty for ending lives, he certainly wasn’t going to for bringing any sense of meaning to his own. 

Should have told Boone that, Six thinks. Really told him, not just the breathless words of encouragement whenever he’d see him hesitating. Should have reassured him it’s what Six had loved most about him from the start. That careless, unapologetic desire, that insatiable fire. 

Should have said that he knew that made him selfish, wanting Boone when he was broken. Wanting them to stay broken together. Should have laid it all out and let Boone decide what he wanted to do with it. 

Makes this easier, in a way, that he didn’t. Helps keep Six secure in the knowledge that his fate is entirely deserved. 

Time passes. Vulpes comes to use him once a day, at least. Doesn’t beat him anymore, or even say much. Perhaps because he knows there’s nothing more he could say, nothing worse he could inflict than what’s already coming. 

Six is glad of it. Makes it easier to shut his eyes, retreat into his body and his pleasure and know nothing else. There’s no reason not to now, and he’ll take any reprieve from the endless, empty void he can get. 

The light comes and goes through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, a couple times. Six has half convinced himself nothing’s going to happen, that Boone really has fled for good, when the gunshots start. There was never a chance at readiness for it, was never going to be something he could even remotely handle, and yet Six feels blindsided by his terror anyway. 

It’s dark out, dim in the shack, lit only by slithered beams that trickle in from the floodlights on the buildings outside. After what felt like an eternity of suspended animation, the sudden flurry of activity is overwhelming. The noise from outside is muffled yet deafening; piercing bangs, thudding footsteps and raised voices all blending together into a cacophony of assault on Six’s senses. 

Sitting on the mattress, knees curled into himself in the corner where the walls meet, Six covers his ears with his palms, trying to breathe through the panic. Any moment now legionnaires are going to come for him, drag him outside to watch Boone die. Not even that. Watch him go up on a cross, watch him suffer. 

Pain blossoms in his palms as Six suddenly registers how tightly his fists are clenched, his fingernails drawing small crescents of blood. Knows then, in a cathartic rush of certainty, that he'll gouge his own eyes out before he witnesses it. Kill anyone or anything he needs to, to make any of this easier in any way. 

He pulls himself to his feet, room swaying around him a little. He’s weak, bruised and aching, but he profoundly does not care. The next thing that comes through that door is dying. 

When the door is flung open and Vulpes rushes in, hissing, "Time to go, courier," Six feels his teeth bare. Tackles him before Vulpes can react, sending the machete he had in his hand skidding far across the floor. 

They fly into the wall with a brutal smack, Six pinning Vulpes with a rough forearm across his throat. Gets a brief glance at Vulpes’ face, the snarl of his mouth and wild flare of his eyes, before a knee is driven into his gut and he’s thrown backwards. Brings Vulpes with him, yanking viciously at his face and shoulders; they hit the floor with a breath-stealing thud, descend quickly into desperate grappling. Clawing for any leverage they can get, any possible way they can hurt each other. 

Six gets a few good hits in, but Vulpes undoubtedly has the advantage; armored and uninjured before the fight began. A punch to the jaw snaps Six’s head back, leaves him reeling. Gives Vulpes an opening to snatch the switchblade from his boot and hold it to Six’s throat, pressing the edge down until Six stills. 

Vulpes shoves him down flat on his back, straddling his thighs. They’re both panting, faces streaked with blood and dust. Vulpes looks positively feral where he’s hunched over Six. “It seems your dog brought a friend,” he says breathlessly, teeth baring in a vicious grin. “More dissolute vermin for me to exterminate. You, however--” he grabs Six’s face with his free hand, thumb swiping roughly over his mouth, “you, I think I’ll keep.” 

Six rears his head back, tries to spit at him, finds his mouth too dry. And then suddenly he can’t see, blinded by a burst of light flooding the room; registers only then the hard bang of the door being thrown open. 

He twists and squints, jerks and flails as Vulpes rolls them both sideways. Winds up on his ass with Vulpes behind him, thighs and arms clamping tight around Six’s torso like a bizarre embrace, except Six can still feel the blade at his throat. 

“Drop it.” 

Six feels his heart sing and break all at once. Boone. 

“Why would I do that, dog?” Vulpes sneers, tightening his hold, arm holding the knife hooked firmly over Six’s shoulder. “I highly doubt you’re going to let me walk away.” 

“No,” Boone confirms. Blurriness fading, Six sees the unmistakable figure of him move further into the shack, sidestepping slow and deliberate, rifle raised. “But I’ll make it quick.” 

Vulpes huffs with derisive laughter. “You think I fear pain? That I haven’t been prepared to die from the moment I became a servant of Caesar? I know who you are, _Craig Boone,_ and you’re just as weak and worthless as the rest of the NCR degenerates. Couldn’t save your own wife, couldn't protect your pathetic whore--” 

Six buries his teeth in Vulpes’ wrist, canines sinking deep into tender flesh. A fear of pain Vulpes may lack, but his reaction to it is still entirely involuntary; strangled yell and violent flinch, hand jerking sideways-- Six hears himself splutter, breath stolen, but he manages to lunge away from Vulpes. 

Boone doesn’t hesitate. Six feels the air whip past his ear, deafening bang piercing his eardrum, splatter of flesh against the floor, before the weight of Vulpes falls away from Six’s back. 

Six wants to look behind himself, make sure he’s really dead. Wants to reach for Boone in spite of everything, in spite of himself. Tries to open his mouth, tell him to run, tell him-- there's no words, no breath. 

He registers the blood before the pain. Warm wetness coating his neck and trickling over his shoulders, soaking into his shirt. His hands go to his throat automatically, finding it soaked and sticky and far, far too malleable. Suddenly feels like he’s drowning, copper liquid bubbling up from somewhere in the back of his throat, filling his mouth. 

The realization of what’s happened washes over him, seems to trigger his body into action, or lack thereof. Overwhelmed with the urge to cough, too weak against the pain it causes it do it properly, he crumbles to the floor, half-curled on his side, gasping for breath. 

Hears footsteps, feels a presence next to him, hands tugging at his shoulders. “Fuck. No.” Boone's voice, murmuring low and frantic, “No no no. Kid. Come on.” 

Six’s torso is hauled upwards, limp head pulled in line with his shoulders. He grabs at the air until he manages to snag a handful of Boone’s shirt. _Go,_ he tries to say. _Get out of here._ Produces only what sounds like gurgling to his own ringing ears. 

“I'm sorry. Took too long. I had to-- Gannon's here. He can help you. Stay with me.” Boone’s face swims in and out of focus above Six, surreal to see, still beautiful even with the panic twisting his features. He’s not wearing his glasses, shadow of the room pooling in the deep circles under his furrowed brow. “Hey, look at me. Right here, come on.” 

Six tries, he does his best. Knows it makes him a hypocrite, knows Boone would have probably ended Six himself by now if he only knew, but fuck it. He’s selfish and greedy and it won’t matter soon anyway, might as well take whatever he can get. His chest seizes as he splutters for breath, lack of oxygen tiring him intensely, edges of his vision darkening. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Six groans as he’s jostled, feels a wet hand tapping his face, clutching at the back of his head. “Fuck, don’t do this to me-- _Gannon!”_

More noise, more footsteps, blasts that seem to twang through the air rather than split it. Door slam, another presence, another voice he recognizes. Room lurching, hard floor under his back, more hands pawing at him. 

“Do something, fuck, _do something--_ ” 

“Yes, I thought I might. Would you _please--_ ” 

The liquid in his throat rains wetly over Six’s face as he coughs, struggle for breath intensifying, heart thudding louder and louder in his ears until it drowns out everything else. Until all Six knows is panic and pain, until time dissolves around him. 

Feels intensely familiar. A perverse sense of coming home. Writhing in his grave, suffocating in the dirty, bloody abyss. Perhaps he never left the first time. Perhaps this is where he’s always been, always will be. 

Feels positively blissful when it starts to fade, starts to lessen. Yet, paradoxically, Six wants to cling to it. Suddenly feels a bizarre, abject terror at the idea of letting it go. The fear keeps him there, hovering in that strange limbo, until it slowly starts to fade, something distinctly easier rising up to welcome him; washing over him like a wave, taking his consciousness with it on the way out. 

When it returns to him, it’s silent. Until it isn’t, elements of the world around him slowly falling into place like bricks building into a wall. Roaring, first, rushing past his ears. Wind, he realizes. Then the gentle hum of insects, the rustle of dirt and debris. Hard, flat expanse under his back and legs. His eyes feel impossibly heavy, but the urge to open them is overwhelming. 

Stars. Canvas of cloudy navy disappearing behind dark, curving rock. Six blinks blearily as existence whirls confusingly around him. Sky, cave, desert. Living. He takes a breath, stutters and coughs at the sharp spike of pain it shoots through his chest and throat. 

“Hey,” a voice says. Six startles, remembers Boone exists only when he sees him, sitting on the ground next to him. “You almost fucking died. Thought you did.” 

Six swallows hard, finds it feels restricted, pressured. Raises a heavy hand to his throat and finds it bound, bandaged. Makes him cough again, wheezing pathetically. His mouth feels tacky, acrid, tongue thick and heavy. 

“Here,” Boone says, producing a bottle of water. He leans over Six, slides a hand behind his head, helps him drink. “Doc’s getting firewood. Said you shouldn’t try to talk.” 

Drinking is painful, messy, but Boone holds him steady, feeds the water to him so tenderly Six could scream. Reality is rapidly returning to him, closing in around him. They’re not dead. They made it out. Boone came for him, rescued him, saved his fucking life. 

That last one isn’t necessarily unusual, but with Boone’s panicked pleas still ringing in his ears, the weight of that hanging over him, it feels like another blade in the throat. As does Boone being right beside him, moonlight caressing his face, concern coloring his eyes. 

“What is it?” Boone asks, looking at Six’s face. “Pain?” 

Six pulls a harsh, shuddering breath. Almost feels like laughing. _No shit,_ he wants to say. 

“Shall I get Gannon?” 

Six shakes his head, gritting his teeth as the movement leaves it throbbing. Every second he’s still in Boone’s presence is becoming torturous, and yet he literally, physically doesn’t have words to stop it. Feels like a cruel, sick joke. 

“Hey,” Boone says again, softer. “It’s okay. We’re safe. Shot that fuck twice. Wiped out the whole goddamn camp.” 

Six closes his eyes, feels moisture squeeze out between his lashes. He feels guilty. Profoundly, unbearably. Shocked he’s even still capable of it. Feels pathetic, pitiful. He has no right to this grief. He’s done everything to earn this. 

Boone is quiet, for a long moment. His voice sounds strange when he speaks, too casual. “He hurt you.” 

_Yes. No. Not enough._

“Goddamn it,” Boone says quietly, tightly. “I took too long." 

_God, no. This is even worse._

“Just. Didn’t think I could do it alone. Knew they’d be guarding you. Should’ve just taken the shot when they grabbed you, but they-- he. _Fuck.”_

Six can’t stand it any longer. He opens his mouth, manages nothing but a hoarse rasp. Feels Boone lean into him, warm hand on Six’s shoulder. Opens his eyes and immediately wishes he hadn’t; meeting Boone’s eyes is physically painful, seeing guilt and anger he doesn’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry,” Boone says flatly. “This is all my fault. Should never have talked you into this.” 

Six shakes his head frantically, still trying to force out words even as his throat is screaming at him, as the taste of blood reignites on the back of his tongue. He fists handfuls of Boone’s shirt; maybe to shake him, to shut him up, to make him understand. 

But Boone clearly misinterprets him, because he leans down and covers Six’s mouth with his own. 

Six freezes, world tilting. What fresh hell, what sadistic fucking irony. The one thing-- the _only_ thing he’s wanted, that he’s begged for, that Boone has never given him. And he gets it now, of all times, of all moments. 

And Six is the lowest, weakest piece of shit that’s ever lived, because he grabs Boone around the neck and takes it like he owns it, like he’s deserving of it. Allows the wet warmth of Boone’s mouth to overwhelm him, to reassure him, to delude him in the worst and best possible way. Has him toying with the idea things can be okay, or normal, or whatever their fucked up approximation of those things is. 

And then a curt cough from somewhere behind Boone makes him pull away, leaving Six heaving for breath. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Arcade says mildly, appearing in Six’s vision, arms full of stacked branches. “But that sort of thing really isn’t conducive to the healing process.” 

Six emphatically disagrees, but Boone straightens up hastily, ducks his head and mutters something that sounds vaguely affirmative. For a bizarre, hysterical moment, Six wants to laugh. 

Arcade dumps the branches on the ground, shoos Boone out of the way so he can take his place. Six lies still as Arcade checks him over, taking measured breaths, watching Boone quietly put the fire together next to them; the slope of his back, the bruises on his knuckles, the way he’s concentrating with vacant eyes. 

Feels like being shoved in the gut, like falling. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Arcade tells him, but Six isn’t so sure. 

Boone looks at him, nods. And suddenly, Six is glad he can’t speak. 


End file.
